Of Dragons and Wolves
by Zairan Mai
Summary: Lyanna and Rhaegar are polar opposites. But maybe that's what keeps them together, even though the things that they experience are things that wouldn't usually be experienced. It's the mix of Winter and Fire, and it's amazing how well the two are together. Set before G.R.R.M.'s stories begin.
1. Chapter 1

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's horse was black as night, twice as strong, and thrice as fast—and Rhaegar himself was an accomplished knight. He had nothing to worry about in the coming tourney. That was why he was out in Harrenhal's godswood instead of practicing for the joust that he would have to take part in. The Targaryen prince wasn't surprised to find that ladies of the court had followed him to the edges of the godswood. All that kept them from entering was their fear of the old gods that Westoros had traded in for the Seven Faced God. The ladies were dressed in flashy silks and cottons, short-sleeved gowns made for the southern climate that dominated Harrenhal and most all of Westoros aside from the north. While those of the dragon donned short-sleeves and lightweight cottons, the direwolves of the north wore sensible wools and heavier fabrics. Rhaegar was actually eager to meet the illusive Starks of Winterfell. He'd heard tales of the strength of Ser Brandon Stark, Lord Rickard's eldest son, and stories of how the daughter was the old blood of the North returned to life. "A true she-wolf of the north," he'd heard he described, "and a true wild hearted beauty." Of the youngest, nothing was said, aside from whispers that said that he was interested in the Wall and taking the black of the Night's Watch.

Rhaegar had seen the middle son often in court. Eddard Stark fostered with Lord Jon Arryn of the Eyrie, alongside the son of the Baratheon's eldest, Robert. The stag and the direwolf, fostered with the falcon. Those thoughts curled Rhaegar's lips into a smile. Who would foster the young Viserys, he soon wondered. The young son of Aerys was just as crazy as the king. Dragonstone, the seat of his House, would be home to Viserys and his mother for the coming storm. He knew that his father intended to do something wild at this tourney, and Rhaegar intended to stay out of it. The prince was loved by the commonfolk, and he intended for that to continue. His father, however, was feared because of his unstable nature, and the people turned more to Rhaegar than they did to their king.

The blood of Old Valyria raced through Rhaegar's veins more surely. He was taller, more broad of shoulder than his father, and his regal lavender eyes were darker and more melancholic. That, he assumed, could be marked to the fact that Rhaegar had been born on the same day a great tragedy had stolen lives. What is reaped is also sowed. The black and red banner of the Targaryen line suited Rhaegar beautifully; he would proclaim the words _Blood and Fire_ until the day he died. Yet, much like his family's words, the Starks of Winterfell had words that could be used as a battlecry or a threat—_Winter is coming. _The winters of Westoros were harsh and cruel things, thirsting for life and taking all it could. The Seven Kingdoms would fall if the Starks of the north ever decided to abandon their home and allow the Wall to fall into disrepair. A Stark must always be in the North, just as the Wall must always be manned.

The Starks, the honorable family they were, had never abandoned Winterfell, and Rhaegar had a feeling that they never would, not unless they were forced.

"Hyaah," a woman cried, and the pounding of horse's hooves thudded against the ground. The ladies that had followed him heard the clanking of armor, and they shrieked away toward the safety of the brightly colored tents. He would hear countless stories of Harrenhal's haunted godswood that night, he knew, and Rhaegar laughed. What cowardly females the southern region bred. He stood and dusted himself off, waiting for the charge of the new female to reach him. He would greet the rider the same way he greeted all people on horses that loved them, but solely if the horse loved his girl. If not, then Rhaegar would bow low and let her pass.

The massive grey should've been a destrier. That was the only thought Rhaegar had when he took in the sight of the majestic grey stallion bearing the slight girl. No banners followed her, no hints of her lineage were housed on her, and it seemed to him that she solely existed in this godswood. "Steady!" she cried out, seeing the prince, and her horse slowed to a stop, snorting and pawing the ground, ears pricked forward towards Rhaegar. He smiled. A horse and his girl. The prince bowed low to the lady rider. "Hello, my lady."

"How do you do?" the girl asked, not dismounting her steed. He straightened and looked her over. Her long brown hair was wild, and her steel-grey eyes met his defiantly. This girl would not hide her face as the southern ladies were wont to do. "Is this Harrenhal's godswood?"

"It is." Rhaegar studied the girl, taking in all he could. She was a beauty, this wild lady. She didn't look away from him, and she didn't treat him differently. She stared him down and then grinned, scratching her stallion's neck.

"What do you think of my Winter?" Winter, he assumed, was the name of the stallion.

"He is beautiful," the prince said. "Is he not a destrier?"

"No, he isn't." She replied, and she slid down the side of her Winter. "Winter's too kind to be a destrier. Although, he was bred to be my brother's tourney horse," she admitted, "but I might have interfered with that by raising Winter since he was a yearling. So he's mine now." She offered him a wolfish grin. "Does it bother you if I just let him be? He won't run you over or leave, he'll wait for me."

"I do not mind." In fact, Rhaegar found himself fascinated by this odd girl that had found him. She smiled and threw the reins back around the horse's neck, and kissed the stallion's nose.

"Good boy. Sweet boy," she whispered, and then she went to the scowling faced weirwood. "Well, this one has quite the face on." Rhaegar bit his lip to keep from laughing at her tone. "I like my weirwood's face better. This one just looks angry."

"Would you not be angry, trapped in a godswood that no one uses any longer?"

Rhaegar couldn't help the question from spilling from his lips, and the girl turned to look at him. "I'd be quite angry, but I'd try not to look so mean!" She laughed at her words and sat down on the large stone in front of the tree. "The old gods aren't mean. They're simply old gods, patient and willing, and while they will fight for their cause, they aren't going to make mean faces at you because they've been abandoned." Rhaegar was astonished at the sense the girl made. She was, quite obviously, educated in the old gods and the ways of the world. She wore a long-sleeved dress, he realized, and then he understood.

"You're a northern girl, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. I am Lyanna." The name meant nothing to Rhaegar, and he smiled at her.

"The pleasure is mine, Lyanna." She grinned.

"It most certainly is!" She leapt to her feet and looked for her horse. The grey had disappeared into the trees, and she rolled her eyes.

"Winter!"

Rhaegar snickered, thinking that nothing would come of her calling the name, but he was surprised when the stallion came at a run, prancing in place for his lady. "Pretty boy," Lyanna crooned, and she leapt up, managing to mount the monster of a horse. Rhaegar was impressed at the show of athleticism. "Good-bye, ser," she said politely. "It was nice to talk to you. Enjoy the angry-faced weirwood and its mean glare." And then she was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Winter's stride carried her away from the angry-faced weirwood and the beautiful man she'd found alongside it. She'd loved the way the broad-shouldered man had smiled at her, treated her like she was a person, not just some slow-witted woman who didn't know what was going on. Of course, Lyanna had played around quite childishly with him, but he'd played right back. Surely he didn't think poorly of her. She hated that she'd had to so abruptly leave, but it was better that than to get left behind and not know where they were staying while in Harrenhal. "Did you like him, Winter?" she asked her horse, who replied by snorting and arching his neck. She grinned and scratched his neck again, nudging him forward to catch up with her family. She could just barely see the grey-and-white banner bobbing in the wind.

"Lyanna, there you are!" The massive, war-hammer wielding man who cantered to her wore a huge grin on his face. "I was wondering where you'd run off to! Did you find whatever it was you were looking for?" Robert Baratheon, black of hair, strong of arm, and completely 'swoon-worthy', according to one of Lyanna's maids, was her betrothed. She didn't want this marriage. It was a marriage of convenience, and Lord Stark had agreed to it because the Baratheons of Storm's End were a new family, and Robert was a strong ally to have. Lyanna didn't know why she had to marry him when he was Ned's best friend, but she was the daughter, and her father was her father. She would listen to him.

"I suppose so. I know where the godswood is now, so I can go there when I like." Lyanna hadn't intended for her reply to sound the way it did, but she couldn't swallow the words that had spilled from her lips now. Robert boomed with laughter, the sound echoing across the tented fields.

"I'm glad. What do you think of haunted Harrenhal so far?"

Lyanna's mind drew her back to the beautiful lavender-eyed man from the godswood. "Beautiful."

Robert looked at her with shock, but shrugged, looking back to the tangled mess of melted towers. "I suppose it is, in its own way. The dragons melted away the better parts of it, I think, but the walls are strong and tall. It must've been a sight to see when it was complete." Lyanna rolled her eyes and then smiled.

"Hey, Robert," she said, and the boy turned to her, curious.

She kicked Winter forward and yelled back, "I'll race you to the others!"

She could hear his mumbled curse and she burst out laughing as she rode.

That night, there was a banquet held. Why, she didn't know, but she was forced to dress nicely in silks and satins that she hated. Her one solace was the blue winter rose she was allowed to keep in her hair. She loved the roses of Winterfell, how they looked in the early morning, with frost still tingeing the edges of the petals a beautiful white. She loved the colors of winter, she supposed, but that was all right. She was Lyanna of House Stark, whose seat was Winterfell in the north. They were the direwolves and the second defense of the Wall, should the wildlings ever dare break through the Night's Watch.

Benjen Stark, her brother, sat beside an older man in black. He'd found a black brother, then, she assumed, and was no doubt asking about the life of a man of the Night's Watch. Lyanna didn't understand why her little brother loved the Watch so much. Maybe it was the idea that he would be protecting people he cared about? Or was it that he would be able to explore the unknown? She didn't know; she didn't honestly care to understand, really. Ben was Ben, and she wanted to keep her little brother for as long as she could. That's how she came to find herself sitting beside a boy and a crow. "What's the Wall like?" Ben asked excitedly, and the old crow smiled, baring rotting teeth.

"Is the Wall actually a pile of ice, like I've heard?" Lyanna contributed her own question, and then corrected herself. "Actually, is it true that the Wall is made of ice, and that different Lord Commanders actually built it to stand as tall as it does today?"

The crow's laugh was a husky, rasping mess. "That is one way to say it, my lady," he rasped. "The other way, the ways I've heard it told, are ways that I dare not say in front of a highborn lady." Ben cast an evil glare at her for the man's decision to not share other descriptions of the defense of the Seven Kingdoms. "Oh, boy, don't look at your sister so. It's not so bad, I'll tell you of the Others instead, if you'd like."

Ben snorted at that. "I'm not here for childish stories of monsters that lurk beyond the Wall. What lurks behind the Wall are wildlings, direwolves, and shadowcats. That's all."

"Then why have need for a Night's Watch, little lord?" the crow asked. Lyanna liked the man's clever way of making Ben think. "Why need the horn that we blow?"

"Because the wildlings try to take down the Wall, to get through, don't they?"

"While that is true, it's not the only reason. Thousands of years ago, there was a winter that seemed like it would never end. During this winter, the dead didn't stay dead. They rose with blue fire in their eyes, and they sought only to kill, kill, kill." The crow's voice had mysteriously cleared of its previous rasping, and dropped a few octaves lower. Lyanna felt a chill curl down her spine. "Little lord, have you felt the cold winds? As you Starks say, _Winter is coming._ And this winter will be a winter like no other."

"Bah, simply child's folly to believe that, crow," Ben said cruelly. "I'm no child."

"Yes, you are, lordling." The crow took Benjen's words and simply ignored them. Ben's callousness was slowly angering Lyanna, and it was just a matter of time before she snapped at the boy for it. "Children have no bastard children, just as it's a rare man that says he'll take the vow without having done some wrong to deserve the sentence of going to the Night's Watch."

"I'm not a coward, like my sister," Ben said, and Lyanna snapped. She gently placed her food and silverware on the table and grabbed her goblet. "Lyanna likes flowers and boys, same as all girls, and she doesn't dare dream of the things that lurk behind the Wall. I do. I don't believe in the Others, but I believe in shadowcats and nightmares, wargs and wildlings, and I want to take the black!"

Lyanna dumped her wine on Ben's head, stood up, and calmly walked out of Harrenhal's Great Hall. Her little brother hadn't been trying to be mean, she knew. But he had still been mean, throwing all of the stereotypes of women at her and not even acknowledging that she was there. She didn't even know why he had said it all! She hadn't done anything to deserve that!

The warm air outside caressed Lyanna's face, and she leaned into it. "I miss Winterfell," she whispered, and suddenly she straightened. "Is someone there?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you. Are you alright?"

She whirled, shocked, and faced the beautiful man from the godswood. He was dressed in Targaryen red and black, and she recognized him for who he was now. "Oh, gods," she whispered, and fell into a curtsy. "My lord, please pardon my folly early. I did not recognize you, Prince Rhaegar. Please forgive me."

"Stand straight, Lyanna Stark. I more like the wild girl I faced this morning than I do this groveling." _Be brave,_ she understood him to be saying._ You're better off being brave than being scared._

She straightened, pushed her shoulders back, and met Rhaegar Targaryen's gaze. "Why did you follow me, ser?"

"Because you ran from a boy of what, twelve? You dumped wine on his head and fled. I worried." Rhaegar leaned against the blackened walls. "Should I not have worried?"

"I thank you for your worry, but it was unneeded. Welcome, but unneeded. Why worry for some girl you don't know?"

His brow furrowed with confusion, and the same emotion was blatant to hear in his voice. "I don't know."

This time, Rhaegar Targaryen left without a word, disappearing into the Great Hall once more.


	3. Chapter 3

He'd been minding his own business when the sudden flurry of motion caught his attention. The Great Hall of Harrenhal was busy and loud, filled with men, women, and children that were drunk or in the process of getting drunk. That wasn't to say the children were getting drunk; he'd made sure that the people who were serving knew not to give the children wine or ale or mead. For them, they had special cups of juice, water, or tea. Rhaegar Targaryen would have no drunken children staggering about the halls of Harrenhal.

The Starks, he'd noted, included the girl Lyanna. He hadn't realized that he was talking to Lord Rickard's only daughter early, and she obviously hadn't realized him to be prince. She'd curtsied toward him when her father nudged her side, but she hadn't looked. Rhaegar would've seen her look if she had, especially since he hadn't taken his eyes off her all evening. He understood now why he'd heard men calling her a wild beauty. She had the facial features of the Starks, but where usually they were softened in women, her face seemed to pull them even sharper than on the males of her family. It was exquisite, and quite astounding, especially since he hadn't expected to find a male's face attractive on a female.

"My prince," someone giggled, and he drew his attention away from the Starks. Ashara Dayne smiled at him, eager to keep his attention, and he simply shook his head at her. He didn't want to bother with her at the moment, or at any other moment. Of all the brightly dressed girls who followed him around like lost puppies, she must be the worst. It didn't help that she was related to the Morning Sword, Arthur Dayne, man of his father's Kingsguard. She believed herself to have certain rights with Rhaegar that no one had. That no one included even Elia of Dorne, the woman he'd married.

He glanced at the Stark girl again, and stared as he watched her upend her goblet on her brother's head, stand, and walk out of the Great Hall. Her shoulders were hunched forward, and she looked like she was about to start running, and Rhaegar rose to his feet, ignoring Ashara's complaints and pleas for him to stay seated. "Where are you going, my prince?" she cried. A knight made a move to rise with him, but Rhaegar placed a hand on his shoulder as he passed, and the knight remained seated. He was glad that most all of the Hall was drunk, because none of them noticed his sudden departure from the Hall—and they didn't notice hers, either.

He embraced the sudden fresh air that rolled over him, and the door was quiet when it closed. However, Lyanna seemed to have heard it, because she suddenly stiffened and asked, "Is someone there?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. Are you alright?"

Lyanna whirled and stared at him with wide eyes, and he watched her recognize who he was. "My lord, please pardon my folly earlier. I did not recognize you, Prince Rhaegar. Please forgive me." She looked down at the ground and her shoulders curved inward.

_This is wrong. Such a bold and beautiful woman shouldn't do this. Be brave, Lyanna Stark. From me, you have nothing to fear. It's better to be brave than scared. _"Stand straight, Lyanna Stark. I more like the wild girl I faced this morning than I do this groveling."

As Rhaegar watched, the girl straightened her shoulders, and looked up to meet him eye to eye. "Why did you follow me, ser?" Rhaegar hid a smile and leaned against the wall.

"Because you ran from a boy of what, twelve? You dumped wine on his head and fled. I worried. Should I not have worried?"

He watched quite a few emotions charge across Lyanna's face, but none really seemed dominant. So she gave a small shrug and proceeded on, deciding against really reacting to his statement. "I thank you for your worry, but was unneeded. Welcome, but unneeded. Why worry for some girl you don't know?"

Her words made him freeze up. Why did he worry about her? He had a wife, Elia of Dorne. He didn't worry about Ashara Dayne. He didn't worry about Lysa Tully, Catelyn Tully, or any other girl. So why did he worry about Lyanna Stark?

"I don't know."

With his confession, Rhaegar pushed off the wall and entered the Great Hall once more, waving off the worried questions from a few girls who had noticed his departure. Even after he'd sat down once more, he didn't focus on the festivities of the feast. Instead, he tried to understand why he'd worried about Lyanna Stark, and tried to understand why he'd felt a sense of fear if his worry had been something that she didn't care to have. The girl, he knew, wasn't someone that he should be concerning himself with. After all, the Starks of Winterfell rarely ever journeyed south. They had been Kings in the North before Torrhen Stark had bent his knee to a Targaryen, and ever since, the north had been part of Westoros. But that didn't mean that the Starks would venture down from their frozen home.

Rhaegar let out a frustrated sound and then surrendered his curiosity to the knowledge that he ought to pay attention to the feast. He didn't intend to let a Stark or a Baratheon or a Tyrell or a Tully to unseat him—or beat him—tomorrow.


End file.
